Sarah Graham
by lemonheadedmegan
Summary: The story of Sarah Graham, young novelist who becomes an angel's vessel. Supernatural: Raphael, OCs, no spoilers. One shot.


_Sarah. Sarah Graham. Sarah, I need you._

I woke up with a jerk, almost falling off the sofa. My heart was thudding and I was breathing heavily. There was some cartoon on the television, which I assumed is what woke me up. I glanced at the digital clock by the screen; it was two in the morning. I stood up and rolled my joints. Falling asleep on the sofa so often was really catching up to me.

There was no way I was going back to sleep; there was too much adrenaline in my system for that now. I walked the short distance into the miniature kitchen, and turned on the first burner. I filled the tin kettle and put it on, and began preparing my mug.

I tried to recall what I had dreamt about as I filled the infuser with the loose tea. Two spoons of sugar in the mug, with a splash of milk. I poured the boiling water over the infuser, and let it steep for a few minutes. The only thing I could seem to remember was a general feeling of warmth and lightness.

The tea was scalding, of course, but that didn't stop me from sipping at it as I stared out the tiny window into the black sky. While I was up, I might as well get some work done. I opened the laptop screen at the small table, and keyed in the passcode. So maybe I was paranoid, having a passcode on a laptop when I was the only one living at this end of the hall, the only one in this flat. A little precaution never hurt anybody.

I started by return e-mailing my sister, she was always worried about me, living in South London all alone. Always wondering when I'd get married or find a flat-mate. Someone to prevent me from being alone and spending all my time with books or films. I proceeded to write back the publishers and my editor, that, no, sadly, I had not yet finished my fourth novel. In truth, I hadn't even gone through what I had written. There were two hundred pages of pure dribble sitting on my hard drive.

Writing is hard. I really can't stand to do it.

My tea had cooled down enough to take a great gulp of it, which succeeded in calming me down a bit. I browsed the internet for couple hours, doing nothing in particular. Writer's block had gripped me for two months. Everything I wrote was utter crock, and I supplemented the time with pointless internet time. I would occasionally get a bright idea, write it out, and it fits in nothing with the story.

The first ray of sun peeked behind a tree into my window, telling me that morning was here. I got up and went into the tub. I dozed.

_Sarah. I need you. Listen to me._

I woke up with another sudden shock. The water was cold now, and my feet were blue. I checked the clock on the wall—and I was late. I leapt out of the tub and into a towel.

By the time I got to work I was twenty minutes late with tea spilt down my front. A street woman had rushed me, shouting "I need you, listen to me, listen to me!" I shoved her off and ran away; I took a taxi the rest of the way.

"Sarah, 'bout time you got 'ere, eh? Don' wan' you ge-in' inta tr'ble," Martin hollered when I came through the employee entrance round back. The East Ender owned the little book shop, and was the only person who I considered a friend, though we never talked out of the job.

"Yeah, this mad street lady tried to nab me, she was talkin' crazy. Now I got a mess on my coat." I set my first layer on the coat rack, with my cap and scarf. Winters in South London were terrible, though I'd grown up in worse.

The day dragged by. The sky had started out a lovely pale blue, but it was a dark blue-grey, and the wind had gotten stronger by lunch time. I hated these kinds of days. I was shelving a new crate of books when I heard the noise.

The highest pitch I could ever imagine, ringing in my ears. It grew louder and louder, and I had to cover my ears. The ground was quaking now. A mirror fell to the floor, breaking into millions of pieces. Books fell off the shelf. My palms felt wet, and I removed one to look at it; it was covered in blood. As the noise grew in decibel yet again I fell to my knees and screwed my eyes shut. I was beginning to lose consciousness when it blessedly stopped. I passed out anyway.

When I came to, my hands weren't sticky with blood, my ears weren't ringing, and the pain in my ears was gone. The only evidence that it had ever happened was the shattered mirror.

I was shaken. I didn't know what to do. When I ran to the front desk, Martin looked at me like I was mad. He didn't ask if I heard anything. What was I supposed to do? I shook my head at him and went to stock the new books.

There was a full-blown storm by the time I left at four. The rain was coming down to no avail, and I darted into a cab.

The cabbie let me off half a block away from my building; the traffic was much worse than I've ever seen it, dozens of cars back up. I jogged down the street, holding my bag to cover my face from the sheeting rain. I keyed myself into the main entrance and got on the lift. When I got to the door of my flat, I paused to take a deep breath. My hands were shaking from the cold, and I couldn't get the key in.

I finally swung the door open, and went straight to the window. There was no one in the street. Not a single car. But my hat was lying on the pavement, getting soaked. I swore—I didn't have money for another one; I had no choice but to go and get it.

I grumbled and trudged out the door. When I got outside, I darted over to the sad pile of knitting that was my cap.

_Sarah._

I jerked up.

"Who's there?" I called out into the darkness that shouldn't've been there. "Who said my name?"

_Sarah! Listen to me!_

I twirled round. There was no one in the street, and there were no alleyways. No one would have an open window, would they?

_Sarah. Listen._

That's when I realised the voice was in my head.

_Who is this_, I asked myself. _Why is this in my head?_

_My name is Raphael. Do you know who I am?_

_Raphael. As in the archangel, Raphael?_

_Yes. Do you know why I am here?_

_I've gone mad. Sitting in the street, just a mad lady. Archangels talking in my head—_

_Sarah. Listen._

_Listen to what?! What is it that I'm supposed to be listening to?_

_Me. My voice. I didn't mean to startle you before, please forgive me. I need you._

_Need me. Need me for what?_

_You are my vessel._

_Vessel. Oh, god, god, __**god.**_

_I need your permission to use you as a vessel._

_Use me? As a … a vessel? _

_Yes. I will be in your body, and you can either stay there or move on._

_Move on? Or stay with you inside me? But what—how?_

_I am angel of the Lord, do not question what I require a vessel for, human._

_What will happen to me?_

_You can either choose to stay in the vessel as well, and forfeit all control up to me, or you can leave the body. You can go to heaven._

_Go to heaven? But don't you have to, well, actually believe in it?_

_It is not a requirement, no._

_So I'll be dead._

_You will be in the arms of the Father, and bask in His glory and feel His grace._

I thought about my life. About what I've done so far, in my twenty-seven years. Nothing. I had a job, written three and a half crap novels, and lived in a flat that was the size of a public toilet room. I had no future. I didn't have anyone to stay here for. This Raphael bloke sounded very important.

I was never a gullible person. Ever. But when Raphael spoke into my mind, I could feel the truthfulness of his words, of his existence. I didn't need to question anything. It was all there, inside my head.

_Okay._

And almost instantly, I felt myself ascend. I got a few feet over my body, and watched the process. The body fell down to the pavement, face blank, when Raphael entered the body. The eyes lit up green again, and the tiny mouth stretched open. The body was sopping wet, positively dripping, but Raphael didn't seem to mind.

_Thank you, Sarah Graham. Now you may go home._

I felt all the troubles I had ever had be melted away by the warmth and the light. All the tragedy I had as a child, as a teenager, every sad or terrifying memory was washed away as I was bathed in this Father's love. Everything that I tried to forget as an adult was lovingly pushed into oblivion. I only felt love.


End file.
